


A warm breath on the back of your neck and a warm belly pressed against yours

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP, pure and simple. </p>
<p>Breakfast in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A warm breath on the back of your neck and a warm belly pressed against yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookwrrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwrrm/gifts).



> Title is from "Lines on Palms" by Josh Pyke. Thanks to K for the beta!

Alana Bloom doesn’t _do_ relationships. To be fair, she doesn’t do _this_ either. 

She wakes up naked but warm enough, tucked between a body and the place where a body has been. Will murmurs into her ear, his breath making little eddies in her hair. “Hannibal’s gone down to make us breakfast,” he says, his hand inching over her hip to slide -- full-palmed -- up her belly, to brush idly across the underside of her left breast. 

Alana’s whole body jolts. Instead of fighting the movement, she hastily rolls over, now facing Will, their bodies far too close for any imagined decency. “You realize this is _entirely_ inappropriate, right?”

Will must still be hazy from sleep, because he only smiles and leans impossibly closer. His lips move against Alana’s and when she learns to separate the sensation from the sounds, she realizes he is replying. “You’re not my therapist, Alana,” he says, and his hands -- his warm, rough, hands -- punctuate the thought between them, ghosting over the dark gloss of her pubic hair, hovering incredibly close--

“But Hannibal is--” Alana tries, and falls off. She’s no debater, and her heart isn’t in this argument. Besides, they’re all words she laid out last night. Words that mean nothing compared to slick bodies on a bed, tangled.

“Our friend,” Will insists. He smiles now, against Alana’s mouth. She is wet. His fingers find her, slick and easy. One slides inside, making way for another. 

Heart in her throat, Alana shifts against him. The sound she makes is low and involuntary. A kind of keening. A dark whimper, from her heart to his. 

“Come here,” Will tells her, thrusting slowly with his fingers, his cock hard between them. The intimacy of it, the intense _closeness_ of precum leaking, sticky hot, against her stomach is almost too much. _Is_ too much. This time, her moan is twinged with panic, quickly moving to reach past Will for a condom packet on the bedside table. She rips at the foil with shaking hands (Will’s own hand awkward, but never stopping) and hovering over him, now -- _seeing_ him clearly for the first time in the light of the morning -- she rolls the condom on by touch. He is warm in her hand, warm and throbbing and fuck every argument she’s ever made against this, she wants him inside of her.

Will Graham is no fool: the details taken care of, and Alana above him all endless pale skin and perfect breasts that fit in his hands, he makes the transition between his fingers and his cock as seamless as possible. Still, there is a moment of aching emptiness countered by her body sinking down around his. The body has wonderful muscle memory, but before last night, Alana hasn’t experienced this for years. Hasn’t experienced _this_ ever. She takes a moment, and he lets her, his hands on her hips, one wet with her cum and tracing circles where his fingers fall.

“Good morning,” Will says, finally, his smile brilliant (if a bit strained, understandably). Alana laughs, and Will laughs, and their bodies are shaking together, and suddenly (neither can tell when it happens), they’ve stopped laughing and Alana is rolling her hips, her hands on Will’s chest and hair and shoulders, and his hands are on her hips and between them, rubbing roughly at her clit at every upward thrust.

Neither hears the bedroom door open and then solidly close. Alana knows this isn’t about anything as trivial as love, knows that sex is an act between bodies that humans have been trained to attach emotional significance to. She knows that Will’s heartbeat beneath her hand could be anyone’s. “I should have realized you’d start without me,” comes that unmistakable voice from over Alana’s shoulder. She and Will both still mid-thrust, consciously or not. 

Alana turns her head, aware of the sheen of sweat and flush of exertion that cover her. “Should we have waited?” she asks, as flippantly as her current position will allow. 

Hannibal arranges something on the table, lifts the lid of a tray and the smells of what must be breakfast waft through the room. Hannibal turns to face them, a pristine apron covering his front, his hands crossed casually over where his cock is beginning to stiffen. “You hardly need to ask my permission, Alana,” he pauses, shifting eye contact, “Will.” In response, he jerks up into her, making Alana gasp and fall forward to catch herself. 

“Join us, then?” Will manages, every bit of his body taut like a bow string, ready to release.

Ever casual and deliberate, Hannibal undoes the knots at his back and the fabric drops to the floor. “Only fair that we should all work up an appetite, yes?” His half-smile could, under different lights be a touch insidious, but now, with his hand slowly stroking his cock as he walks toward the bed, it only reads as sensual as Will’s half-breaths, or the rise and fall of Alana’s chest.

He stops behind them, his body neatly fitting between Will’s feet, torso pressing up to Alana’s behind -- the tall bed making connection possible without Hannibal needing to kneel. Hannibal reaches between them, his cool fingertips brushing first Alana’s clit and then Will’s penis where it joins her. He and Will exchange a look over Alana’s head -- and whatever is communicated causes Will to arch up and stare at Hannibal, begging silently. Just as silent, Hannibal lowers his mouth to Alana’s shoulder, and (presumably) keeping eye contact with Will, bites down. 

Alana gasps. The sensation is more intense than she’s used to, and Hannibal doesn’t give way, not as he tugs at Will’s body, shifting them closer to the edge of the bed, not as he pushes her gently forward, changing the angle of Will’s cock inside of her, making her breathless.(She can feel Hannibal’s cock beneath her, the condom slick.) Not until he presses into Will (and Will releases an answering strangled moan, thrusting wildly into Alana) does Hannibal release his bite on Alana’s neck. Perhaps she is bleeding, but can’t for the life of her find it in her to care. As Hannibal fucks Will, his answering thrusts into her become more deliberate, more all-consuming. Now bent low over Will’s body, she grinds against him, unashamed of her loud gasps and whimpers echoed by Will himself. Hannibal is silent but for the small grunts of effort and the loud wet noises their bodies make, meeting and separating.

As if making up for the loss of his mouth against her neck, Hannibal’s fingers sneak between Alana and Will, working her clit. It’s easy, then, to lose herself in it all, to let herself come quickly, clenching hard around Will’s cock. Alana is breathless, and too weak now to keep this up. There’s nothing she’d like more, now, than to watch Will and Hannibal finish.

Carefully, she separates her and Will’s bodies, shimmying out from between the two men to shiver when the cool air hits her skin. Hannibal’s hand quickly moves in to finish where Alana left off, solidly stroking. Still finding her breath, Alana lies to the side, half-awake and sated. Her eyes shift from Will’s face to Hannibal’s. Here, she can see their silent communication from both sides, can see how every glance -- every _movement_ speaks to the other.

Shakily, she rises to her feet and lifts a cup of water from Hannibal’s carefully prepared breakfast tray to her lips. She drinks long, sure to keep the scene before her visible over the lip of the glass. 

“God,” Will says, wild with need. His fists fall to his sides, bunched full of sheets. 

Returning to the bed, Alana runs a now-chilled hand down his chest and manages to catch Hannibal’s eye. “Come, Will,” she whispers, drawing Hannibal’s hand away. Finally, with nothing but Hannibal fucking him with increasing intensity, Will comes, grabbing Alana’s wrist and holding tight as he rides through the orgasm.

Perhaps triggered by the movement, or perhaps simply by seeing Will come apart so spectacularly, Hannibal soon follows, finishing with a low moan and a few final thrusts. After extracting himself, Hannibal falls to Will’s other side, both of them breathing heavily.

Without a word, Alana passes the glass of water to Will, who takes a long drink before handing it off to Hannibal. “Thank you,” he says, tipping the glass back and finishing it off. Alana watches his throat work, and apparently Will is watching too: Hannibal shoots the two of them an amused look as he drops back onto the bed. 

For a moment, all is quiet. 

In lieu of retreating back under the sheets, Alana scoots closer to Will. “I hope we didn’t ruin your breakfast, Hannibal,” she says, clearing her throat and risking a cheeky grin in Hannibal’s direction.

“One of the things I must teach you about good food,” Hannibal answers, brushing Will’s temple with his knuckle, “is that it will keep.”

“Does that mean breakfast in bed?” Will asks, sitting up on his elbows.

Before rising to retrieve his carefully planned meal, Hannibal leans across the bed to kiss Alana first, then Will. His kiss is gentle, and nothing like the bite he left on her neck -- though equally as alluring. He smiles, “I can think of one or two things I’d like to taste.”


End file.
